Page 30 of The Manor of Dreams

Nearly ten months after they moved in, Vivian’s aunt and uncle from San Francisco came down by train. They practically fell over when they saw the house rise before them. “??,” her uncle said, his eyes gleaming. Inside, their eyes roved over the imported Ming-style vasesand brush paintings, as Vivian swelled with pride. That night she made them all dumplings herself. They shared platters upon platters, all crowded around the kitchen to eat instead of at the long dining table, which made sharing impossible. Her uncle drank???with Richard, and they both made funny faces at Lucille, who shrieked with joy, her lips streaked with vinegar from the dumplings. Her aunt cooed over her new seven-month-old daughter. Vivian translated effortlessly between them, and somehow, Richard’s jokes came through.

Her aunt and uncle stayed in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. The next day they were quieter. They ate breakfast quickly. Richard drove them to the train station, and before they boarded, her aunt clasped her hands.

“Come back,” Vivian said. “Whatever you need, let me know.”

Her aunt nodded and pulled Vivian close. “Be careful out here,” she said, words for Vivian only.

Vivian pulled away. “??, of course. What do you mean?”

Her aunt looked at her, mouth open as if to say something. But the train sounded and she simply turned away.

The following month, Richard finally convinced his mother to visit. Dishes were polished twice. A French cook was hired, who made a soup, braised veal with a wine sauce reduction, and perfectly tender potatoes. Cecilia Lowell arrived by taxi. Vivian could tell Richard was nervous by how much he adjusted his shirt collar, and it made her anxious, too. In Mandarin she told her daughters to be quiet.

Richard’s mother scrutinized the couple’s choices as she walked through the house’s halls. She was expressionless taking in the same Ming dishes Vivian’s aunt and uncle had gasped at. She evoked some warmth when Vivian and Richard showed her Renata, held the infant, even, and helped put her to bed, but otherwise remained indifferent.

During dinner, the conversation was quiet and controlled. They talked about Richard’s and Vivian’s recent roles, about a new tennis club that opened up near where Richard’s mother lived, the inauguration of the new president. Jazz played on the turntable. Forks and knives screeched against the dishware. Lucille’s face puckered as shechewed the veal, and Vivian felt her temperature rise. She drank her wine in small, rationed sips. Richard’s mother had never been openly disdainful of Vivian. But still, she had thoughts on politics that Vivian didn’t have the context to possess, mentioned names she didn’t know, and used words that she had never had any reason to learn, so that when her mother-in-law asked Vivian her opinion, she could add nothing. She felt childish and humiliated when Cecilia did this, like she had failed a test.

“So,” Richard asked his mother later on. They were still around the dining room table. Vivian had just put her daughters to bed. “What do you think of the house?”

His mother looked up, her gaze settling on Vivian. “What do you think, dear?”

Vivian swallowed. Her husband turned to look at her. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Richard did a beautiful job with the renovation.” She winced at sayingbeautifultwice.

Cecilia nodded.

“You should move back out here,” Richard said. He fidgeted with his napkin, the only sign of his nervousness. “You could live with us. Have your pick of the rooms.”

Vivian shot her husband a look. They’d never discussed this. Did they really want this cold woman to reside in their house? To eat formal dinners like this every night?

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on the happy family,” Cecilia said, and Vivian felt at first a flash of relief that quickly soured into anxiety. Her mother-in-law hated her, she was now certain of it. And her children, too.

“You wouldn’t be,” her son reassured her. “Here, stay the night at least? We have guest rooms downstairs.”

His mother stood up. “I should call a taxi,” she said. “I’ll use the phone in the living room.” She gathered up her wool coat. Vivian watched her go with her stomach in knots.

Richard shut the door. “She won’t even spend a night here.”

“It’s me,” Vivian said, suddenly realizing she was exhausted. “She doesn’t like me.”

“That’s not it.” He shook his head, defeated. “It’s the house. She’salways been this way. I thought I could change her mind if we built it up the waywewanted. If we cleared out the old. But—” He grimaced. “She’s still superstitious.”

“Superstitious,” Vivian said slowly. “Of what?”

Richard didn’t answer her for a long time. “She’s convinced she saw a ghost in her parents’ bedroom when she was a child,” he said. “But she didn’t. That’s all.”

In May they hosted a late dinner for Eugene Lyman, a producer who was an old friend of Richard’s. He’d been three years above Richard at Yale Drama and had become a producer of action movies.

Vivian put the children to bed before she got dressed and greeted Eugene and his wife, Jeanette, a tall, imposing, woman who showed up in a mink-lined tapestry coat and bright jewelry.

They drank wine and looked out over the half-finished grounds behind the house as Vivian told them she’d been looking into hiring a gardener. At dinner Jeanette regaled them, in her low, raspy voice, about the producers who were booking trips to see mistresses, the substance habits of well-known actors, and the romantic trysts of a certain senator with an up-and-coming actress. They were rapt. Eugene dropped in with a joke from time to time. Vivian rubbed her husband’s shoulder when she placed a platter of fresh potstickers next to the salad, and he squeezed her hand. One thing she didn’t like about show business was how people gossiped. Surely if they were talking about other people this way, someone must be talking about her.

“These dumplings, Vivian,” Eugene admired. Vivian remembered coming in to audition for him once. He’d barely focused on her monologue and had dismissed her the moment she was done speaking. But now his eyes sparkled. “I might have to hire a Chinese cook myself.”

Vivian’s cheeks warmed.

“How you act and raise children and keep up this beautiful house, I have no clue,” Jeanette said. She had perfectly applied lipstick that matched her nails. She tapped her cigarette into the ashtray. Vivian winced inside, thinking of how the smoke would rise and stain the walls. “You must tell me your secrets.”

Vivian smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I try my best.”

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